


Spectre

by safety_dancer



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, I hate myself for this, Spectre AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safety_dancer/pseuds/safety_dancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preboot!Tim wakes up as a spectre of sorts in the New 52 world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectre

**Author's Note:**

> Here's Bruce's segment! Each batfam member will probably have their own section, instead of piling it all up in one giant fic. Enjoy! :)

Tim blinked against the sunlight that shone through the blinds. He felt… _strange_. He noticed that the square of light he lay in failed to warm the exposed skin of his arms. In fact, he felt neither warm nor cold. Just. Neutral. He shifted, running his fingers over the patterned duvet, but the texture of the fabric failed to register to his unfeeling digits. 

Heaving a breath, he instead cast his eyes about the room, realizing with some relief that he was in his bedroom in the manor. It seemed bigger without his posters and bookshelves of knickknacks, which he had taken with him when he moved into his own apartment. He stood slowly, looking down at himself and wondering at the lack of injuries or anything else that would’ve kept him in bed. He didn’t think he was sick, so that wasn’t it either. Biting his lip, he made for the door and reached for the knob, only to have his hand sink completely into the dark oak. 

“What the fudge…” he jerked back, staring at his hand, turning it over and back. It looked normal. He swallowed, moving once more for the knob, eyes widening when again he only passed through it. 

Okay. That was… interesting. Maybe he was a meta-human now. Maybe he’d been doused in radioactive sludge, or bitten by a mutant bug. Which was pretty damn cool in a very terrifying way. Tim gave a small, nervous laugh, shoving his arm through the door and then his entire body, a crooked grin sliding to his face. As long as this didn’t have any weird side-effects, he thought he could get used to this pretty easily.

“Bruce? Alfred?” He called, quickly running down the hall and taking the stairs two at a time. “Dick? Anybody home?” He yelped a little when he didn’t quite manage to stop at the bottom of the stairs, but instead of hitting the wall, his shoulder disappeared into the paneling. He shook his head, jogging into the kitchen. He smiled when he saw Alfred leaning over the stove, back to him. “Alfred! Hey, do you know where Bruce is?” 

Alfred didn’t move except to keep stirring the pot of whatever he was making. He didn’t seem to hear Tim. With a frown, Tim strode closer, lifting a hand to tap the elderly butler’s shoulder. His frown twisted into a grimace when his hand phased right through, and he felt nothing. Okay, maybe this wasn’t going to be as neat as he originally thought. 

“Smells good, Alfred. Minestrone?” Bruce ambled into the kitchen, hands stuffed causally into his jean pockets. Tim turned to him, confused when Bruce seemed to look straight through him, unseeing. He also took note of the beard on the man’s face, and wondered just how long he had been unconscious.

“Of course, sir. Have a seat, it will be ready momentarily.” Alfred tossed a tiny smile over his shoulder, using his right hand to slide the pot off the burner. Tim’s breath stuttered when he saw the stub of his left arm. 

“Alfred!” he cried out, stumbling closer. “Alfred, when did this happen?” 

Again, he was ignored, and a shiver tore through him as the butler walked right through him. 

“What’s happening?” he asked himself in a horrified whisper. “Bruce, why can’t you hear me?” He moved to stand right in front of the man that had been a father to him for years, leaning down so as to be eye to eye. “B, please answer me!” He grit his teeth when Bruce failed to even acknowledge him. 

He needed to find his siblings, see if they had any idea of what the hell was going on. Reluctantly, he stepped away and turned towards the doorway.

**…**

_“Sorry I’m late,” Tim’s voice rang out suddenly in the Cave. “I got hung up.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking up at Bruce sheepishly. “I know I promised you dinner… but I got into something and it ran longer than I thought.”_

_Bruce smiled, tugging his cowl off and stepping towards his son. “Forget about dinner,” he said reassuringly, “the important thing is-”_

_“I got you something,” Tim interrupted, twisting to dig in one of the pockets of his utility belt. He produced a small box, holding it out. “Happy Father’s Day, Bruce. I wanted everything to be perfect, and I ruined dinner, but there’s still this. Open it.”  
_

_Bruce took the box carefully, popping the lid up. He blinked at the bent and broken golden watch that lay inside, and Tim sucked in a breath._

_“Damn,” he muttered, biting his bottom lip. “It must have been a punch I took. Your first Father’s Day and I-”  
_

_“-did great, Tim” Bruce interjected, grinning at the teen. “Did you get the bad guys?”  
_

_“Yeah…”  
_

_“And you made it home safe. You made it a perfect Father’s Day, Tim.” He slung an arm around his son’s shoulders, and Tim’s lips slowly slid into a smile. “Maybe I can’t wear the watch, but this will look terrific in a trophy case, don’t you think, Alfred?”_

_“Indubitably, sir.”  
_

_“As for dinner,” Bruce continued, “I’m not letting you off the hook. Are scrambled eggs in your repertoire?”  
_

_“Anything you want, Bruce… it’s your day.”  
_

**…**

“Master Bruce?” 

Bruce started, looking up into the concerned gaze of his caretaker. He cleared his throat, shifting in the chair slightly and offering a quick smile.

“Ah, I’m fine. Just got lost in thought, I guess.” He looked down into the bowl Alfred had set before him, furrowing his brows as his mind seemed to play the scene over and over again. It felt familiar. _The boy_ felt familiar, though he couldn’t figure as to _why_. The man had looked like himself, and yet, it couldn’t have been him. What was with the costumes? And he was pretty sure he didn’t have any sons. Alfred surely would’ve told him something as important as the fact that he had _children_. 

He curled his fingers so tight around the spoon they turned white, and he felt frustration bubbling up. Frustration that there were so many things he just… _didn’t understand_. Then there was the feeling that something was missing. Like a hole in his being. 

He shook his head, spooning some of the soup into his mouth and pushing it all from his mind.


End file.
